An Accident, Not a Mistake
by I-am-the-survivor
Summary: Watson was not supposed to be home, that he was certain of. They set a routine long ago when they established their partnership. He warns her of when he's going to engage in nightly activities and she makes herself scarce for the night. She is not supposed to be in the kitchen in the early morning. She is not supposed to be mistaken for who he slept with last night.


I have had this one in my drafts for a WHILE and I finally fucking finished it. I hope you all enjoy this shippy trash because I am stuck here for the rest of my days

Watson was not supposed to be home, that he was certain of. They set a routine long ago when they established their partnership. He warns her of when he's going to engage in nightly activities and she makes herself scarce for the night. Often times she ends up at Emily's but on the rare occasion her other best friend is busy, she'd end up on Detective Bell's couch for the night. She is _not _supposed to be in the kitchen in the early morning. She is not supposed to be mistaken for who he slept with last night. Yet that's exactly what happened.

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Sherlock wakes blearily looking around the bedroom. He smiles slightly to himself as he remembers the exact reason he'd been so exhausted as to fall asleep in his bed. He'd met up with a rather new irregular with long dark hair and rather alluring eyes. It lead to a long but pleasurable night that he had the absolute joy of warning Watson about. Even if it meant being teased about the "sex blanket" again. She knows he loathes her nickname for the item but he can't help but get a little joy at the sparkle in her eyes as she smiles at him knowingly.

Thus, Watson bid him goodbye early into the night with proclamations that she was going to have some fun of her own. Due to her dressed up attire and a rather flattering dress he's to guess she planned on going clubbing with Emily. It'd been a while since the two women had a night out and secretly he was glad Watson was allowing herself to engage with the nightlife of New York.

He kicks his legs out of the entanglement of the sheets retrieving fresh clothes from his dresser. He shrugs on some boxers and a pair of sweatpants before realizing the other side of the bed was empty. He rubs his chin taking in the sounds of the Brownstone, no creaks in the floor so she's not on this level and no running water so she's not in the bathroom. Finally, he hears the shutting of the cupboard in the kitchen downstairs. He forgoes his shirt descending the stairs two at a time to meet his conquest for one more quick round before his partner's return or a case springs up.

She has her back turned to him fiddling with the coffee machine. Dark tendrils spill over her shoulders beautifully, slim athletic legs remain bare other than a pair of shorts barely peeking out of a familiar yellow shirt. He almost growls at the sight of her in his shirt but he wants his presence to remain a secret until the very last second.

He comes up behind her, slowly as not to alert her as she retrieves a coffee cup from the cabinet. His hands slide up her lithe body trailing over the fabric of his shirt until he's cupping her breasts. He buries his face in her hair muttering a greeting into her skin, "Good morning."

He breathes in her scent with a sigh as cardamom and honey fills his senses. It's odd because he swears last night she'd smelled of vanilla. His body tenses as does the one in his arms as his still sleep addled brain makes the connections.

Had he have taken more time to observe he would've realized that she shouldn't know where the mugs are much less their coffee beans. Had he have taken more time he would've noticed that the shorts peeking out from beneath the shirt were familiar but not his. Had he have taken more time he would've smelled the hint of scotch lingering. Had he have taken more time he would've remembered that the shirt in question was his _I'm not lucky, I am good_ shirt and it had mysteriously vanished from his laundry rotation months ago.

He springs away from the female figure as his brain finally connects the scent to Watson. She spins around as quickly as he, confirming the rapid fire conclusions his brain makes as it is jerked into alertness. Her wide eyes meet his, her startled gaze asking for an explanation.

"You are not Amelia." He stutters out, ears burning with embarrassment that is rare for him. He and Watson make a point to rarely touch and to maintain their professionalism and that does not include pressing himself against her and groping her in their kitchen.

He prepares himself for yelling or a slew of expletives to be thrown at him for his carelessness but she simply nods grabbing her coffee off the counter for a sip. "You just missed her. She said she left a note."

His lips move but he's quickly aware that there's no sound coming out. His brain wracks for an apology or an explanation or even questioning why in the hell she was so unphased by this. Rather what comes out is, "Do we have a case?" When she shakes her head he bounces on his toes. "Right, call on me if that changes."

Wide steps carry him as far away from the tense air as possible and as far away from the lingering thought of how right her body had felt against his.

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If anyone asked he'd remark the thought of him avoiding Watson as ludicrous. On what nature would he be able to avoid a woman he lives with much less, one he works so closely with as well? Well, truth is he's been trying. Trying emphasizes that he's not been successful. At all. The air is tense as she meets his strides in the precinct, at home, and on the street.

He's irritatingly aware of her presence, in fact it's borderline distracting. His eyes linger as she gathers her hair into a ponytail and sweep it out of her face while her own gaze remains glued to files. He follows her movements as she pushes her reading glasses further up her nose when they stubbornly slip. He holds his breath as she folds her bare legs beneath her to get more comfortable.

He must have read the same line fifteen times before he huffed and announced that he was going to make them coffee.

Matters did not improve when her fingers accidentally brushed his as he passed her mug to her. The small touch sent sparks up his spine and he can't help but remark inwardly that the hours of content with Amelia did not bring such an addicting sensation.

As he sets their food down, which he'd stubbornly insisted he'd retrieve alone. Truthfully, had the wind carried the scent of cardamom and honey to his nose on the walk he doesn't know what he could have done. Still, as the wind blows in behind him and he sets the bag on the ground to remove his coat and scarf he hears her tell tale steps approaching. They're hesitant, cautious, as if approaching a lost child. He shuts his eyes waiting for her voice to sweep over him like a wave consuming all he is.

"Sherlock." He turns to her, as if he hadn't heard her at all. "We need to talk." Her jaw is set, eyes blazing with determination. He was foolish to think she hadn't known about the change in behavior. He had hoped she hadn't, that this case was enough to swallow her attention. She doesn't though.

"Watson."

"No." She cuts him off stepping closer to him. "I'm going to talk." Her tongue sweeps momentarily brushing her lower lip as she wracks her brain for the words. "Look what happened this morning happened. You thought I was someone else, I snuck in through the basement late last night because I was drunk."

"Watson." He tries again.

"I'm not finished." She snaps. His jaw pops shut and he listens obediently. "It was a mistake. It won't happen again. What you should've done is talked to me about it instead of trying to avoid me all day like a child." Her words would sting had they not weighed so truthfully. "I am not about to let you throw away six years of a partnership because you got confused." His eyes pull to hers yet again and all he can do is remind himself to breathe as he's enraptured by how passionately she fights for them. For what they've built for so many years. To think he's about to throw it all down the drain. "I am not going to let you push me away again."

She's barely got the last word out before he moves. His body pushes against hers and she's against the wall. He slants his lips across hers capturing her mouth in one smooth motion. Her body tenses and his hands settle on her slim waist. Her lips are softer than he could've imagined, the recesses of his mind catalogue every detail they can take in. Her suit jacket brushes the back of his hands pulling a sigh from him.

His mind seems to catch up to what his body is doing because he pulls from her rather suddenly. Yet again he finds himself missing the close contact with her. Emotions he'd long buried into the back of his subconscious come surfacing quicker than he can control as his eyes fall to her lips yet again.

"Sherlock." Her voice is barely a whisper, all self assurance has been pulled from her words. "I need…" Her fingers brush his arm following it up his body, eyes never leaving his face. Finally her hand comes to settle on his chest. Her other tangles her fingers with the back of his left hand, pulling his own higher up her body. The movement is incredibly reminiscent of just that morning and flashes take over his mind momentarily. What if he'd lost control in their kitchen and pressed her against the counter. It would've saved them a lot of the troubles of today.

He feels the thin texture of her blouse as their hands travel up her torso. They stop just below her breast, fingers cupping the expanse of her ribs. He can feel everything in this position, from her heartbeat thundering against his fingertips to her chest expanding with every quickened breath. Her eyes flicker across his face reading his every microexpression.

He lifts her with ease and she wraps her legs tightly around his waist. He bounds up the steps two at a time guiding to her room where he kicks the door closed behind them. He lays her gently on the bed so that he may properly worship her.


End file.
